


whumptober 2020

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Multi, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 13,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: My 31 contributions to this year's whumptober.Check the beginning of each chapter for its tags + warnings + ship(s).
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. LET'S HANG OUT SOMETIME

**Author's Note:**

> **Waking Up Restrained** | Shackled | Hanging
> 
> nsfw, 50, dean smith, fucking machines

Smith comes to with a startle.

His eyes open, and yet—

“Sam? SAM?”

Nothing.

Dean slurs, “Fuck,” into the padded bench he’s strapped to. He tests his bondage, grits his teeth. The machine that pounds into him doesn’t let up on him. And why would it?

He groans. Now that his brain is catching up on reality, the stimulation is—present. Insistent. His cock chubs up as far as it will go in the confines of its cage.

How long has he been in here? What time is it?

Again, pressing, “SAM?!” but there’s no reply, nothing but the thick non-echo of the soundproof room. The deep-red light makes Smith’s eyes tear up. The fucking machine whirrs on and on.

Smith huffs, desperate, exhausted. Just lies there and takes it.

So fucking slick. Makes sense; a dispenser of sort somewhere in there, maybe. Smith’s husband is always thorough like that.

Smith smacks his lips. Thirst. He swallows. His throat scratches with it.

Weaker, “Sam…”

He doesn’t try again for a while.


	2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Pick Who Dies” | **Collars** | Kidnapped
> 
> nsfw, a/b/o dynamics, underage (dean is 16ish), wincest, alpha!sam, omega!dean, soulless!sam, mpreg, pregnant sex, dubcon, sexual slavery, sam and dean are not related in this one
> 
> A small sequel to “[magnolia bloom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109573)”.

Sam’s keys jingle inside their ceramic bowl.

Reproachful, from over in the kitchen: “You’re late.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sam takes off his bag, his coat. Loosens laces so he can wrestle his boots off, too. He shakes the snow out of his hair, picks the mail from the side table by the door.

He strolls over to the kitchen where he finds tonight’s dinner on the stove, ready to go. Dean glares up at him, naked, from his blanket on the floor.

Sam tells him, “Don’t pout,” and leans down to kiss him on the mouth, brush his hand along his cheek, the thick leather of his collar. “Let’s eat.”

It’s peaceful. Easy.

How all Sam has to do is sit down, pat his thigh, and Dean comes crawling over. Barely even pretends he hates it anymore.

Sam has the first forkful, naturally. The next he slips into his palm, underneath the table. Dean hasn’t bitten him in months. It’s all practice.

“Getting big,” he notes, chewing. Even in the limited view between the tabletop and his knees, Dean’s belly is taking over the scene. “I think I won’t be able to keep you on your knees much longer, huh?”

Dean just eats.

~

Sam orders, “Let me,” so Dean deflates back into the pillows. Allows Sam to fan his hand wide over where he’s growing their child, even if his scent tells Sam he’d tell him off if he could.

“Hurts?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Is he moving yet?”

Dean murmurs, “No,” and adds his small hand next to Sam’s.

“Are you gonna tell me when he does?”

“Maybe.”

Sam’s hand wanders north to cup Dean’s chest instead. Kneads it, and Dean’s nose wrinkles.

“Don’t,” and, “I’m sore,” and Sam loves that Dean’s still like this after all this time.

Learned not to push at him too much, so Sam ducks in to get his mouth on it, suck on it strong and obscene with steady suction, and Dean writhes sweet.

The chain clinks softly on top of the covers.

Weaker, “Don’t…”

A different quiet here in the apartment. Theirs. Sam’s.

The muffled sounds of their neighbors next-door, watching TV.

Sam’s low growl is enough to make Dean hike up his leg. He gets his cock out to stroke it, low and steady, while the room fills with the caramelized scent of Dean’s slick. Of both of them, working together. The note of milk, faint but clearly there. When Sam’s not out working, he’s here.

Mumbled, “Right here,” and Dean moans. Not quite wet enough but he’s gonna be in just a second, is so fucking soft anyway. Sam forces his cock in and in and in, a seamless press and Dean shifts, blabbers more denial and insults, says he’s sore but grinds down on Sam’s cock despite it all (despite himself).

Huffs, already delirious with nothing but Sam stuffed into him all the way. So easy, these days.

Sam clamps one hand around the buttery fold of skin and fat between Dean’s held-up leg and his hip. Presses his fingers down into his abdomen and Dean scolds him, “Don’t,” but he can’t keep complaining with Sam’s tongue fucking his mouth, now.

Sam works him steady and focused. Deep and wet and he’s in a rut all the time nowadays, just like Dean always seems to be on the edge of a heat. Pregnancy hormones are no fucking joke.

Doesn’t take long for Dean to sob, “I’m coming,” and Sam wrings his chain around his hand so he can pull it taut, help turn Dean’s pretty little head into an even deeper shade of scarlet while he shakes apart, gasps choked-off and drools, and his eyes begin to tear up and God he’s beautiful, Sam’s perfect little toy.

Attempts to toss, to fight Sam’s unrelenting pounding—eventually. Shaking with the overstimulation and he begs, begs like a good O, “Please, please, no more, I can’t, I can’t,” but they both know that’s not true, and Sam’s never been one to give up easy.


	3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | **Held at Gunpoint**
> 
> spn rpf, guns, gun kink, jensen/male character

Jensen doesn’t know how he manages to close his eyes, but he does.

Purses his lips until they find the metal of the gun, and he has to shift a little to make that happen, and he nearly faints with the risk.

A click of a tongue.

A nudge of the gun.

“Not what I said.”

Jensen’s tongue forces itself out behind the clench of his teeth. Laps where he had kissed. Doubles up for good measure; makes it graphic. His wrists burn sore against the ropes.

A measured, “Better,” and Jensen’s mouth clamps tight and his breath shoots choppy from his nostrils as the gun pushes down his cheek, his neck.

It flirts along the curve of his collar bone, behind the neckline of his tee, before it slips further down to circle over his erect nipple.

“She likes you,” he hears.

The gun remains pressed to Jensen’s chest.

A zipper, coming undone.

“Makes two of us.” 


	4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caged | **Buried Alive** | Collapsed Building
> 
> dean Winchester, spn 04x01

Consciousness comes and goes in rapid succession.

Leaves Dean breathless, sore. Bathed in sweat.

He can’t breathe. Can’t move.

His fist bangs against the wooden roof—again.

The ensuing trickle of dirt has him heaving, hyperventilating faster.

“SAM?!”

Nothing.

Nothing.

“ _SAM_?!”


	5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Run | **Failed Escape** | Rescue
> 
> nsfwhump, sam winchester, constructed reality (in the cage with lucifer), rape, father son incest

Sam hits the muddy ground face-first and screams, flails.

John’s weight grinds him into the gravel, into the dirt, and the immediate sting and burn announces new cuts, new bruises, and Sam wails with his arms wrestled tight behind his back.

The belt cuts mean into his skin. He sobs while it fastens, while he has to accept. Almost. Almost, this time.

A car passes on the highway only several feet away.

The way back is long and dark. Dusk settles. Sam’s cheek flares up hot. His naked feet are numb in the cold. John’s boots crunch over the forest ground, over unknowing insects and sleeping moss.

The fire’s still on, in the cabin.

“What a mess.”

Sam closes his eyes for the dismissive slap to his face, to his chest. John rids him of the worst dust.

“Are we happy with ourselves, Samuel?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Dad ties him to one of the beams closest to the fireplace. Sam stares into the flames. Can’t feel his feet. His eye begins to swell shut.

He winces, in the bath.

A warning, “Shut it,” and Sam endures.

Gets scrubbed clear of the evidence of his misbehavior, of his almost-escape. Almost. Almost, this time.

Dad kisses him on the mouth when it’s over.

Tells him, “Good boy, Sammy,” and Sam gets his hair toweled dry.

Whimpers, “No,” when John carries him to the bed. Is too weak to fight, and it doesn’t make a difference, but he cries. Hasn’t cried in a while for this, but he can’t help it, not now. “Please don’t, please…”

Dad shushes him. Thumbs his tears away and kisses his mouth, licks into it. Murmured, “You like this, remember?” and Sam shakes his head while Dad gets a hold of his dick, strokes him where he is already halfway there. Is told, “Yeah, yeah you do. C’mon, now, be a good boy for Daddy.”


	6. PLEASE…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **“Get it Out”** | No More | “Stop, please”
> 
> hurt!dean, soulless!sam, violence, knives

“Get it out, get it out—!”

Despite better knowledge, Dean can’t look away.

Shakes. Is gonna go into shock.

“Get it out, get it—”

He wails once Sam complies and yanks the knife out of his hand.

Screams anew for it slamming down half an inch to the side and jolts so hard in his bindings that his forehead manages to thud on top of the table. The parallel pain helps only temporarily, but he’ll take it.

Hears, somewhere, flat,

“You were not specific.” 


	7. I’VE GOT YOU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Support** | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker
> 
> prophetic vision, messiah!sam, friendly neighborhood priest castiel, blood, hurt/comfort

“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you. Here.”

Sam coughs against the taste of his own blood. Is guided down, onto the rug, the hardwood floor underneath. He blinks against the too-bright ceiling light; coughs again, cups his nose, his mouth.

Cas’ fingers in the back of his neck squeeze all reassuring. “Okay?”

Sam nods (thinks he does). He’s soaked.

“You’re soaked.”

“Yeah.”

“I will get you a towel.”

“It’s okay,” but Cas argues,

“You are shivering,”

and, yeah, he is.

Alone on the floor, bleeding, Sam startles for the nearby thunder, and he feels utterly stupid.

His next cough sends the overflow in his hands down and into his ears and he swears, attempts to push himself up. But, no.

He’s out of breath and can’t find a reason why.

Feels like hours until Cas is back, frowning behind his glasses and oh no the towel will be ruined, all white and proper and it’s soft, so soft against Sam’s face and he sighs through the next wave of sweat. The rain keeps beating down on the house, the world, outside.

Cas inquires, “Again?” and Sam nods for him, and Cas stifles his sigh, his own understanding nod. “I see.”

Sam offers his palms. Cas dabs away—the worst. Sticky between his fingers, underneath his nails.

Sam supplies, “It just—hit me,” and he sniffles against the blockage in his nose, and Cas wipes at the latter again. “Like, I wasn’t… It just—happened.”

“Later,” orders Cas. On his knees, by Sam’s side, this feels oddly—familiar. “Tilt your head back. Yes.”

Sam does.

The lights behind his eyes keep swirling.


	8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t Say Goodbye” | Abandoned | Isolation | **Alt 3. Comfort**
> 
> underage (dean is 15ish), a/b/o, omega!dean, alpha!cas, alpha!sam, implied sexual slavery

In the darkness, Dean fixes his eyes on where he hears, “Can’t sleep?”

He hesitates to shake his head. He ends up staying frozen.

“Me neither.”

Movement. The groan of the bed, Sam’s bare feet on the carpet. Closing in.

On the bed, Cas turns in his sleep.

Sam opens the cage door and reaches inside—detaches Dean’s collar from the metal bars and tugs at it, tells him, “Come on,” so Dean gets up, and out, and follows.

Now, at night, the house is less of a threat. Like everything is waiting, dozing. Hard to see details in the dark and maybe that helps in unifying things. Helps Dean’s brain supplying stuff like, oh, yeah, just like back home.

“Sit. No, on the—the couch is okay.” Embarrassed, Sam tries half a smile, adds: “I won’t tell.”

Dean just looks at him, hands on his thighs. From couch to the alpha and back, and he asks, “Is it okay though if I…?” It must be a test. Must be.

Sam utters, “Uhm, sure,” and gestures for the pillow, and Dean sinks down on it. “You want some warm milk, maybe? Always puts Cas out like a light.”

Sam doesn’t wait for Dean’s decision before he’s scurried off to the kitchen. Already thumbed the TV on, so Dean is left with almost-muted pictures, the bright lights of the LED display. The fridge in the kitchen opens and closes. Cupboards. Microwave.

The alpha returns and slips into his spot on the couch. Knuckles at his eye and he asks, “Cold?” and Dean wouldn’t have said anything, really, but Sam gathers the soft-looking blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over Dean’s bare shoulders, and—that’s nice.

Dean pulls the fabric close around himself.

Sam’s smile warms for his timid, “Thank you.”

“We can turn up the heat, just tell us, okay?” and the microwave chimes, then, so Sam leaves once more to supply what he promised. “Careful,” he says, “it’s hot.”

Dean _is_ careful. Cups the mug with both hands and breathes the sweet-warm scent of his drink and tells Sam, “Thank you,” again. A first sip; honey.

Channel-surfing. Sam’s attention gets stuck on some sort of historical documentary and Dean zones out after finishing his drink. He’s tired, he is. The warmth in his stomach and around him, thanks to the blanket, helps him realizing that.

He’ll lean against the sofa, just a bit.

The hand in his hair startles him, and he opens his eyes. Did he doze off? He mutters, “Sorry,” but Sam’s hand stays gentle, keeps combing through his hair, and his scent is unchanged. Cozy, sleepy, relaxed.

“Get up here,” but it’s said all soft, like a joke. But it is said.

Dean crawls, and he climbs. He’s heavy and his knees hurt from all the kneeling, and his shoulders ache with tension. Sam pulls him close and Dean beds his head in the alpha’s lap under the instruction of those huge hands, and he curls in tight with the blanket cocooning him. He’s scared and there’s a lump in his throat, but Sam tells him,

“Shhh,”

and keeps petting his head, his hair. Once the tears finally set in, he swiftly wipes them away with the blanket pulled over his knuckles.

Two hands, now, brushing his hair out of his face for him.

The alpha murmurs, “It’s okay,” and Dean blinks against the exhaustion, and Dean sniffles.


	9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice | **Alt 4. Stitches**
> 
> referenced child abuse, hurt!jack, doctor!dean, jack kline, uncle!cas, attempted crisis intervention

Jack winces.

“Good as new.” Dean sets the alcohol-dampened cotton ball aside and pats the teen on his shoulder.

From Dean’s left: “Will it scar?”

“Not enough to impress the ladies, I fear,” and the look on the dad’s face makes Dean backpedal, clear his throat. “So, uh, Jack—don’t let it get too wet. Stay away from your twenty-step skincare routine for a while, should heal up fine.” He gets up to lead them to the door. Poor kid still looks shaken, pale around the mouth.

Dean takes the dad aside with a bad excuse.

Repeats, “Baseball, huh?” and the guy nods, eyes pointed down to the light switch next to Dean’s elbow.

“He is very enthusiastic about sports.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“Are you implying something, doctor?”

“Am I?” and Dean gets those eyes then, finally. Glaring. Dean tells him, “Look,” and gestures into the small space between them. “If there are any problems, the school’s got a great kiddie shrink; I can refer him, if you want. It’s normal,” Dean adds, hopeful, “at his age, I mean. To be struggling.”

The dad’s brows pull wrinkles over his forehead.

“He seems like a good kid.”

“He is.”

“It’s always the nice ones that get picked on,” and the dad half-rolls his eyes and, yeah, he looks the type as well. “If it escalates to physical violence, though, that’s—”

“It’s not school-related.”

“Yeah,” Dean supplies, dry. “Baseball, wasn’t it?”

The dad’s glare tightens further.

Dean lowers his voice some more. Leaning against the wall as he is, arms crossed in front of his chest and the counter in his back, he hopes to supply enough privacy. He helps, “Family?” and sees the struggle in the man—how it tugs and pleads with him and he opens his mouth, just a little, before he snaps it closed again.

Dean’s almost started his next attempt when the guy finally snaps: “His father.”

“Oh.” Dean straightens his back. “You’re not…?”

The man tells him, “It’s complicated,” and brings one hand up to wipe at his face, knead at the bridge of his nose.

Dean watches him. “We could file a report.”

Immediate, “No.”

“Does he live with him?”

“Not exactly, but.” The man tosses himself with his sigh. Sharp and painful, and he hugs himself around his middle. Scratches his fingers through the rough-looking stubble that hasn’t seen a razor one day too many, and he looks utterly tired, now, all of a sudden. Worried. Scared. “I—I don’t know what to do.”

Dean assures him, “There are ways,” but the man shakes his head, looks away, keeps fiddling with his chin.

“No, I’m—I don’t want to make it worse. He is involved with all—all sorts, of…”

“Crap.”

“Yes.”

Dean throws a glance over his shoulder, to the kid, waiting. Idling, peacefully, watching the fish in the tank in the reception area. The laceration on his forehead shines like a beacon through his bangs. Started to bruise, will be a sonofabitch in a couple of hours, days.

Dean frowns, sighs. Grabs one of his business cards from the counter and slips it into the guy’s palm, folds his fingers closed around it, all safe.

Dean heavily fixes him with his eyes.

“If anything happens,” he says, “call me. I’m right here, okay?”

The man nods, even if reluctantly. Looks down to the now slightly bent card in his grip, to Dean’s hand cradling it. Offers, eventually, “Thank you,”

and Dean tells him, “No problem,”

and Dean stands by the door for another beat or two while the odd pair leaves his practice, crosses the parking lot, gets into the beat-up looking Honda.

He murmurs, “Shit,” to himself, to whoever is listening. 


	10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood Loss | **Internal Bleeding** | Trail of Blood
> 
> demon!dean, hurt!cas, grace torture

Castiel chokes, and then he coughs.

The pain ripples through his torso and centers somewhere above his navel.

He’d bend over and hug his middle if he could.

“Oh. Does that hurt?”

Castiel doesn’t need to, but he blinks. His vision won’t stop blurring, though. He tries again.

The demon grabs him by the chin to guide Castiel to look at him. Castiel has to splutter again, cough again. Spits blood, unintended, and looks just as surprised as the demon.

His breath rattles wet.

Dean’s face frowns, sympathetically.

“It does, doesn’t it?” 


	11. PSYCH 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Defiance | Struggling | Crying**
> 
> underage (sam is 13ish), sam Wesson, implied child sexual abuse, implied coercion
> 
> Hey, remember [lunch!verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/880245)?

Sam runs as fast as he can. Has always been one of the fastest in his class, so that means something.

Down the hall, the stairs. So many stairs.

The concierge doesn’t stop him. Barely raises an eye from his newspaper as he murmurs a distant, “No running,” but Sam’s out the door already, out on the street.

Heavy traffic. He looks left. He looks right.

Left.

More running.

He should have put shoes on. It’s cold—the asphalt, the dirt.

The running helps. The distance between him and—Dean. That place.

His lungs begin to burn for attention, but he can’t stop. Not yet. Just a little more, please.

The park. Sam makes a last stumbling sprint into the bushes, and he collapses here. Just falls to his hands and knees and gasps, once and deep, before he holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth.

His hands curl to fists.

He sobs.

~

The cold creeps into him too fast. He peers through the thicket of leaves of his hideout—but, nothing.

Did Dean even follow him?

He would, wouldn’t he? It’s not like he could call the police. Right?

Sam could go—to the police. Report it all. That something’s wrong, that he’s scared, and—it can’t be right. What Dean is doing. What he makes Sam do, even if he tries to wrap it all in cotton, even if he’s—nice. Mom said to listen to Mr. Smith, he’ll look out for you.

Sam sniffles and hugs his middle tighter.

His toes are numb. Blue and dirty.

Sam thinks of home. Of Mom. Their tiny bathroom, her bathing him, way back, when he was littler. Coddling him, wrapping him in a huge, colorful towel before he’d get a last snack before bedtime. Her arms around him, constantly. His room. His own bed.

New tears. Sam fiddles with the cuff of the dumb shirt Dean’s bought him. Made him wear it. Told him it looks good on him, suits him more than the old tees he bought with him. Why don’t we put them over here, for when you happen to need them? Until we sort them out. You’re still growing so much, after all.

The dirt under Sam’s fingernails remains persistent. Hurts—that odd pressure of something that’s not supposed to be where it is.

Someone walks by, oblivious to Sam. Not Dean, so. That’s something.

Dusk. Sam shivers, badly.

He could go home. But Mom was so upset with him after last time. He doesn’t want her to get upset.

Sam hugs his knees tight to his body.

He’s hungry. He’s cold. Freezing. Everything hurts.

Sam drops his forehead to his knees. Breathes somewhat warm into the tiny cave between his face, thighs and chest. A safe little chamber. My beautiful little boy.

It’s even colder when he emerges once more.

He wipes at his face with the back of his hand. Sniffles, again, and he’s so tired. Whatever glorious hopes he’d had, they’re gone by now. Decimated, and he feels stupid, because—not even a pair of shoes. What were you thinking?

Two joggers are the first people who run into him, and they look fucking terrified. Sam would feel bad about it if he wasn’t so miserable already. One of them takes off her jacket to wrap him in it instead, and that helps.

Smith swarms in on the three of them, back on the main street, a few blocks down from where Sam had told the girls he lives with his dad.

Dean’s small, reverent, “Jesus,” makes Sam tear up all over again. “Jesus, Sammy.”

“He was—over, in the bushes, uh—”

“How long has he been gone? He’s ice cold!”

“Thank you, I—a few hours.” Hands on Sam, pulling him in. Face-first into Dean’s woolen coat, the soft scarf. “God, I was—thank you, thank you so much. God, Sammy, what’re you doing, huh? C’mon, let’s get you inside, warm you up, okay? Thank you, again; thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

Sam doesn’t see. He doesn’t want to.

Just lets himself get pulled along, Dean’s arms, Dean’s hands. Long steps, holding him up.

In the elevator, “Jesus Christ, your _feet_.”

The carpet in the corridor. The tiles in Smith’s apartment.

Dean notes, “You’re freezing,” breathless and disturbed and just because he needs to say _something_ , anything. Sam lets him strip him bare, maneuver him into the quickly-filling bathtub. The heat burns, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t make a peep.

Again, calmer, “Jesus.” Dean takes a seat on the edge of the tub and rolls his sleeves up; rid himself of his coat in the hallway. Shovels water over Sam’s head, his clammy hair. “What were you thinking, huh? Jesus Christ, Sammy.”

Dean places an order with their favorite pizza spot, and Sam just wants to—he doesn’t even know.

Murmurs, “The jacket,” and Smith grunts, “Huh?” through the effort of toweling him dry without an ounce of effort from Sam’s side. “The jacket,” repeats Sam. “We didn’t… She left it.”

Smith, as he rubs the towel over-behind Sam’s ear, argues, “It’s only a jacket.”


	12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken Down | **Broken Bones** | Broken Trust
> 
> endverse!destiel, hurt/comfort, recreational drug use

“It’s nothing, really.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’ll break the other one as well.”

Cas chortles dumb. “Is that a promise?”

Dean warns, “Watch it,” and finishes tying the sling with a last, emphasized yank. “There, good as new.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

Dean hears, “You act like this is your fault,” as he is already getting up, already setting the leftover supplies back in place. The wind howls loud, outside of the tent. He murmurs, absently, to himself, “It is.” Behind him, Cas stacks his feet atop the stool Dean just sat on.

Dean tells him, “Dude,” upon catching him halfway through the attempt of gathering his smoking supplies from the back of his pants—single-handedly.

The former angel sighs but allows Dean to take things over. Watches him as he sits down anew, on another stool, and proceeds to roll a joint for him.

“You want to wipe my ass, too?”

“You can do that with your left, can’t you?” They share a long look while Dean licks one thorough line for the paper to stick.

Cas’ healthy fingers tap on top of the table. “Can do all sorts of things with my left.”

Dean gives a tired chuckle, a roll of his eyes. He finishes up the blunt.

“But I like it better when you help me out.”

Dean grunts, “Uh-huh,” and holds the thing out for his friend, and Cas takes it between his lips, graceful as ever, while Dean fumbles with a single match; lights it easy.

Cas leans back with the first drag. The blunt looks unsure in his off-hand, between his ever-dirty fingers. Cas blows the smoke sideways, away, but Dean’s eyes water nevertheless.

Elbows on his knees, he’s still for the first time in…all of today, probably.

His body sighs. Groans.

Dean dips his head low to run his hand back through his hair.

Quiet, teasing, “Can I sleep with you tonight? Just to be safe,” and Dean chuckles, frowns over his smile.

“‘Just to be safe’, huh,” and Cas smiles at him, equally tired, equally lost. One hand to Cas’ nearby knee, a baby-squeeze. “You okay?”

“Super.” Another drag. (They’ve gotta preserve the little stack of pain meds they’ve got. Dean promises to himself to make another tour, soon. It’s no way to live like this. Days like today prove that.)

Dean tells him, “Okay,” and gets to his feet once more, hopefully a last time today. Probably not. “I’ll make another round, check in with everybody. You stay here, rest up, okay? Go grab yourself some food before you hit the sack.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Don’t wait up on me.”

He hears Cas’ airy, “Yeah,” somewhere behind his already-turned back.

Dean steps back outside, into the storm.


	13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask | **Alt 9. Memory Loss**
> 
> wincestiel, normal life AU, hurt!cas

When it all gets too much, Cas can simply—close his eyes.

Can let them slide shut and black out everything else. Focus on your breath—in and out. Count the seconds, if you want. He can do that. Not a lot by any means, but it’s…okay.

It’s okay. It’s okay.

He helps with setting the dinner table because he learned where they keep the plates and cutlery; Dean showed him, and he remembers. The brand of beer Dean likes, the shape and colors of its label. Cas drags his thumb across is, through the condensation. Fresh out of the fridge, just like Dean likes it.

A bump of shoulder, warm and solid. Half a wink.

“Grab one for yourself if you want.”

Cas does. As Dean opens their drinks, something about his body language tells Cas that this wasn’t the right choice.

Dean clinks bottles with him and is too tired to mask his disappointment.

“Let’s eat.”

Their little house is simple. Cas thinks it’s charming—cozy, somehow, safe-feeling. His body remembers the wooden furniture, the textures of blankets and pillows and rugs. Sam had said, “Yeah, you brought this back from your trip to Mexico, remember?” Cas didn’t. But that’s okay; it’s okay.

Sam’s not home yet. He works late a lot, these days. Maybe always did, but Cas has a hunch telling him otherwise.

Cas lingers—restless, tired. Watches Dean taking care of the dishes, soft Henley shirt and the eternal pair of jeans, socked feet. A mid-warm night, early summer. Sixty-three days.

Dean not-asks, “Can I help you?” without turning around, just tilts his head a little like a beckoning, all Cas needs as encouragement. He steps closer until he can fit his face against the back of Dean’s neck, can slip his arms around Dean’s middle.

Dean halts only slightly in his chores.

“You don’t—”

“I want to.”

An unbelieving, “Okay,” and Cas closes his eyes, here, and hears Dean dunking the next plate. 


	14. IS SOMETHING BURNING?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Branding** | Heat Exhaustion | Fire
> 
> a/b/o dynamics, sastiel, age difference, alpha!cas, omega!sam, implied forced marriage/mateship, nonconsensual bondage

“I’m not your dog.”

Cas replies, “Yes. You are not,” but he doesn’t move away from where he’s cradling the iron rod in the fireplace. A faint part of Sam’s otherwise dulled brain wonders if it’ll even become hot enough like this. “And I know this might seem—archaic, to you. But it is tradition. I’m afraid I must insist.”

Sam swallows bile. A new wave of heat, of sickness.

The burning wood cracks gently, innocently.

The untied rope shifts light and loose as Cas shifts his arm, his wrist.

Sam reminds, “You don’t have to do this.”

No reply.

“I’ve—you claimed me. I’m, it’s already—”

“Enough,” and Sam’s mouth shivers tightly shut.

He yanks his hands and feet against their according bonds in an attempt to shake off the nausea. He fails. Drops his head, forces his eyes closed. Breathe. Easy.

The wind howls outside, creeps into the house through the smallest of gaps. Inescapable, this winter. Sam’s memory drags him somewhere safe, back home. His old home. His real home.

Movement, Cas’ bare feet on the wooden floor,

and Sam whimpers, “Please don’t,” and he’d do anything, but it doesn’t matter.

He hyperventilates even though the alpha holds the rod away far enough that Sam won’t feel even a shadow of its heat just yet.

“Please, PLEASE…!”

Cas soothes, “It will be over before you know,” and Sam doesn’t notice him raising his arm, and then there’s just searing, debilitating pain and he shrieks, and he can’t think, there’s nothing but the fire pressing into the right side of his chest and he can’t move, tied down naked and spread eagle on the bed—where he was claimed, where it all ended and started, where he hasn’t left in days.

Cas bears the brand down with emphasis before he lifts it off, finally, and Sam hauls for breath and heaves immediately at the smell of his own burnt skin, turns his head before he throws up; and Cas is back and untying him and shushing him and helping him but he can’t, it hurts, it hurts so so bad.

Sam bawls like a child.

“Do not touch it,” and Cas backhands him soon enough, and Sam bites his hand, his arm, and Cas roars as a result, hits him harder and presses him back down into the pillows and Sam’s ankles are still cuffed or otherwise he would have kicked, something, curled in; anything. “You will calm down. You will calm down right NOW, Sam.”

Pinned down, covered in his own sick and sweat and the stench of his burnt skin, Sam wails, “I hate you,” with the next wave of his heat slowly but surely crawling in on him, clenching at him, despite his will. Just because he’s better, now. Because his alpha is here, right here, holding him down.

Cas gathers both of Sam’s frail wrists in one of his hands; uses the other to wipe at the streaks of tears down Sam’s cheeks. Thumbs at his eyes, kisses there. Somewhere underneath the stink of the burn, there might be something like honest worry in the air between them.

Cas tells him, “Forgive me. Forgive me; I _had_ to,” and he holds them forehead to forehead as Sam sobs anew.


	15. INTO THE UNKNOWN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Possession** | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong
> 
> Stanford era, possessed!john, father son incest, implied past child sexual abuse, implied rape (non-graphic)

Dad’s usually disoriented after a tough hunt. Nothing new. Dean’s aware how it happens to himself, too, so. No biggie. Comes with the job.

So when Dad just—sits, there, at the too-small table of their motel room and Dean has to ask him, “Dad?” and he looks at Dean like he’s just woken up from—what, a dream?—then, yeah, it’s…that’s normal.

Since Sam left, it’s just… Dean gets agitated easier. Off-kilter. Like missing a limb, and he’s stumbling all the time. Adjusting.

Dean repeats, “Shower?” and Dad looks like he has to make sense of it, or maybe he just really doesn’t know if he’s got enough energy left in him to make it, but.

Dean eventually gets that, “Yeah. Yeah,” doubled in an afterthought, like a decision worming its way through too much fog, and Dean nods, and he refocuses on the gun he’s cleaning.

The water starts up. Dad closed the bathroom door all the way.

Dean looks at—the door. The door handle.

It’s nothing.

Dad emerges after—too long? Too short? Underwear, t-shirt.

Dean looks at him.

Dad looks back.

Dean asks him, “Are you okay?”

and Dad replies, “Yeah. Just tired, s’all.”

“Okay. I’ll clean up. Get some rest.”

As he begins to gather the weapon parts, the bullets, the cloth he’d wiped the gun down with, Dean—well, it doesn’t make sense, but. He has the urge to—what, run? Jesus. All the waiting, all the…

Dad’s hand curls around his shoulder, and Dean thinks to ask, “Dad?” and, suddenly, in his mind, he’s seven again.

Small, and Dad was huge, and he blinks because—what? When?

Dad says, “Dean,” and, “It’s just me. Remember?” and Dean opens his mouth to reply, to— _deny_ , but… “Just you and me.”

Dean shoves at a shoulder, connects with his elbow, next—is wrestled down, though, easily, effortlessly, and he’d scream for the bend in his arm but he can’t, and the mattress his face is being forced into by the grip in the back of his neck is suffocating.

And under the racket of his blood, his bones shifting, comes a calm, nasal,

“Now, now, now. That’s not very nice.”


	16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | **Shoot the Hostage**
> 
> hostage!cas, criminal!winchesters, minor character deaths, guns

The shot is so close; too-close.

Someone screams, someone not-Cas.

Cas blinks and stares despite better knowledge.

He can’t feel anything. Too much adrenaline. Just sweat and tunnel vision and nausea.

His hands are clasped behind his head. He focuses on—that. Yes. Just hold on and be still.

As the shotgun barrel moves into his line of vision, though, he snaps his eyes away from the dead body and up towards—the gun, the arm holding the gun, the masked face of the man holding the gun.

Castiel hears, “Got a lil’ something right there,” and the man taps his own cheek with the gloved forefinger of his available hand, and Cas can’t move. Just stares, wide-eyed, and can’t lose the eye contact even though something in him screams at him to God fuck don’t let the fucking GUN out of sight.

Cas and the rest of his colleagues startle with the crash of the phone on the tiled floor.

The one in front of Cas says, “Lemme guess, no luck?” and the other replies by stomping on the phone. “Told you they won’t like that.”

Muffled, “Fuck this,” and another shot, and Cas is shaking now and he can’t not hear the panicked wails, and the gun barrel nudges at his cheek, so he looks back up to the other, pointedly calm man.

Outside, someone’s talking to them through a megaphone. Cas can’t hear what they’re saying. The calm classical music is still dribbling from the speakers.

The man asks him, “You knew her?” casually, like there isn’t a corpse bleeding out an inch from Cas’ hip. “Damn. Sorry, man.”


	17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackmail | **Dirty Secret** | Wrongfully Accused
> 
> a/b/o/ dynamics, social worker cas, beta!cas, omega!sam, mpreg, underage (sam is 14ish), unwanted pregnancy, teen pregnancy

Castiel speaks through God when he asks,

“Let me see.”

And in the small room, this small confined space between donated boxes of Mac N Cheese and cheap peanut butter, Sam lifts his oversized sweater for him.

Cas’ hand reaches out in sheer instinct.

He stops himself.

“How for along you said?”

Trembling, “I dunno,” and Cas, he thinks maybe four months. Five.

“Can I…?”

and Sam, he nods.

Bashful and confused and his scent shifts, just a little, but Cas can tell. Can always tell these small things, the tiniest of things.

Both hands on that barely-there belly, Castiel is utmost reverent.

Swallows, eyes fixed on the protruding knob of Sam’s navel, the too-taut skin.

Sam repeats, “I dunno what to do,” scared and small and yes, Castiel has no reply for him. Has no words.

Just keeps his hand on that warm-warm skin until Sam attempts to cover it back up, wrap his unborn child in the safety of too-much cotton, and Cas very suddenly, very violently, doesn’t want him to.

“You—have to see a doctor.”

“I can’t.”

“There’s ways to—”

“No, there aren’t,” and Cas is sweating, and his mouth is dry.

The omega just stands there, shivering, ebbing with tears, clutching his middle.

“Do your parents know?”

Shake of head.

“Anyone?”

“You? My brother?” Cas nods. Somehow got his hands back on Sam, his spindly-thin arms. Rubs at them, absently.

“Will you…?”

That endless, “I dunno,” and Cas closes his eyes. 


	18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Panic Attacks** | Phobias | Paranoia
> 
> a/b/o dynamics, sastiel, omega!cas, alpha!sam, implied past abuse, hurt/comfort

Cas is faintly aware of himself putting his spoon down, but everything else is—a daze. Through cotton, and his heartbeat, quickening and soon racing, and the floor is nice and cold so he curls up, here, but, it just won’t…

“Hey; hey hey hey, Cas, _hey_ —”

and warm hands, and Cas feels cold, and maybe he lashes out, maybe strikes or kicks because there’s more pressure, then, holding him down, and.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t.

“Fuck, calm—you’re okay, there’s nothing—shit, fuck, hold on—”

Alone, and that’s better-worse. Like flying, falling, and Cas rolls to his back and gasps, too-fast. Paper bag breathing, eventually. He is dizzy. Can’t think.

He startles, in bed. Curled up against the heavy weight that is Sam, his alpha, and that sounds— _wrong_ , but—

“Hey,” again, worried and thick and brushing Cas’ hair out of his face, and Sam’s palms are dry where Cas’ forehead isn’t. “You with me?”

Cas thinks he nods. Croaks, “Yes,” and that hurts. He’s shivering.

Sam pulls him close, until Cas gives in and buries his face in that chest. Gets his back rubbed and feels Sam humming, deep down, and Cas doesn’t know what to do. Everything is so different with Sam.

A gentle, “No,” when Cas worms his hand between them. So Cas tips his head up, nuzzles at the alpha’s throat, and. Just worry, still. Comforting and tinged with anxiety, and Cas soothes a flat palm over Sam’s chest because maybe at least _that_ is something he can provide.

“I apologize.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I panicked,” reminds Castiel. “Without any reason. There was… I wasn’t even…”

Sam interrupts with, “Hey,” and, “It’s fine,” and tugs Cas’ face back against his collarbone, and Cas just feels—stupid, and babied.

He’s old enough to know better. Be in control.

After all, that’s why Sam took him in, right? Cas, used up and just—old. Baggage and confusion and just—stupid. So stupid.

He hears the alpha murmuring, “Hey, it’s all right,” because he knows Cas is tearing up before Cas notices it himself.


	19. BROKEN HEARTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor’s Guilt**
> 
> [SKYDUST!verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633717), space AU, sci-fi AU, past major character death, sam winchester, dean winchester, benny lafitte

Mornings are dull, now. A pain in the ass at the very least. On worse days, Sam can’t deal with them at all.

Staying in bed is torture. He can’t fall back asleep anyway. So he gets up—in the middle of the night, at the cusp of dawn. Whenever his sleep decides to come to an end. It’s not his choice. He has to do it, or he will go insane.

Hikes, most days. For hours on end, no destination in mind, just—moving. One foot in front of the other. Best if he fasts, so his thoughts obsess over fantasies about food instead of Cas. If only for five minutes. Ten.

Home is no longer home, but a tomb.

Dean, lingering, depressed. Memories of—them. The three of them, together, or just Cas. All the places and spots he’d touch, the objects. If it wasn’t for Dean, if this was Sam’s place? He’d burn it down. All of it.

His teachers berate him. He yells at them, because—he _is_ focused, he _does_ ace his work. Tinted, they call it, his heart isn’t in it, and Sam bites back curses and glares and they punish him, and he deserves it, even though he doesn’t. They don’t expel him. That’s all that counts.

Benny is cleaning up the kitchen when Sam returns home after dark.

Turns and tells him, “Saved some for you,” and Sam glares at the still-warm-looking pot by the stove, glares at the man and mumbles about not being hungry, and Benny is aware enough to not press it, not pull a joke, not try and force himself into a space that was never meant for him.

Sam hauls his bags off himself, onto the kitchen table. “Where’s he?”

“Napping.”

Sam half-nods, unpacks. “He ate anything, or? Another liquid dinner?” and Sam hates himself for even asking.

“Pretty sure he’d eat his own hand before he’d reject my efforts.”

Sam makes an approving noise.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gone in a second. Just wrapping this up.”

Sam begins, “It’s not,” but surrenders, ultimately. He gives half a glance to Benny, who wipes down the counter. Who isn’t resentful, never. Who’s too good for Dean, really. But Sam doesn’t have it in him to chase him off.

Once Benny left, Sam drags himself around the house. Lingers in his room for a bit before he caves and finishes the leftovers. The door to Dean’s room is ajar just-so. A temptation, an offering. Sam hates how well he is understood.

Dean’s room is dark, of course. Sam bumps his foot into where he presumes is Dean’s leg, underneath the blanket. The resistance of the metal still catches him off-guard.

“You asleep?”

Dean grumbles noncommittal. Hauls his arm up, though, once, sprawled on his belly like he is, and Sam slips to his knees and next to him, and allows himself to be taken under the covers.

With his arms and legs slung around his brother, Sam informs, “You reek,” and Dean’s, “Yeah, yeah,” is muffled half by his pillow, half by the daze of his non-sleep.

Sam tucks his chin below Dean’s shoulder blade before he slowly allows his eyes to slide shut.


	20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Lost** | Field Medicine | Medieval
> 
> nsfwhump, wincest, constructed reality (dean in hell), sibling incest, rape

Dean’s breath hitches.

He stares out into the field.

“Dean?”

He turns to his right.

Sam.

“Hey, you all right?”

“I—yeah. I think.” He blinks, hard; his hands squeeze the steering wheel.

Baby. Sam. Dad’s jacket—not on him but thrown over the seat, sweat-warm at his back.

Canola.

Dean’s brother snorts. Turns off the stereo. (Had it been on? What music had been playing?)

“Hey, you need a break? Could’ve just asked, y’know,” and with that, Sam leans over to kiss him on the mouth.

Dean can’t even move, he’s so shocked.

Just stares into Sam’s eyes, the plethora of colors and light and years and Sam chuckles soft, the little-brother-smug little thing while he unbuckles Dean’s belt for him, unzips his jeans for him to worm his hand inside.

Fluttering lashes. Another kiss.

Dean can’t move.

“Oh,” laughed, amused, “ _definitely_ needed a break, huh,” and Dean feels himself hard and wet in his brother’s hand, and Sam’s breath tastes wet and close and familiar and the yellow of the canola field is blinding, but he can’t blink.

Gets his mouth nursed on. Gets his dick wrung well and he trembles, his stomach rolls with his heaved breaths but Sam just snickers, tells him,

“Yeah, yeah, hold on,”

and continues to duck down, and Dean’s hand is on the top of his head and pushes him further, and Dean’s hips grind _up_ but _it’s not him_.

Dean gasps into the open field, into the golden yellow eating up everything else.


	21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chronic Pain** | Hypothermia | Infection
> 
> a/b/o dynamics, sastiel, alpha!sam, omega!cas, hurt!cas, implied past abuse, hurt/comfort
> 
> Another glimpse of the setup from [chapter 18](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856889/chapters/68203533).

It happens unannounced, as always—sharp and immediate and Cas’ knee locks, and he falls—dumb, and the cups shatter on the floor and the coffee splashes everywhere, and—

“I’m so sorry, Sam, I—”

“Are you okay?”

“I—yes, but—”

Cas gets hauled to his feet, and he feels pale. Can’t put much weight on his leg and he’s good at masking it, but Sam looks at him like he needs an answer to something he didn’t ask out loud. Cas just stares back at him, terrified.

Sam doesn’t smell angry.

Asks him, “What happened?” and Cas can’t say it.

By now, his calf begins to cramp something fierce, and he keeps himself from grabbing his alpha for support.

“I’m—I slipped,” but Sam must smell his pain because he says, “Here, c’mon,” and helps him over to the nearby chair, in his small, demure kitchen. Goes down to his knees with his hands on Cas, sliding down his legs, his brows furrowed and worried, and. Cas can’t.

“It’s nothing.”

“Your leg? Your knee?”

“It’s—it just does that sometimes, I.”

Sam rubs soothing circles. Which don’t help, of course, but. It’s nice. Kind.

He still looks concerned. “I told you all that kneeling wasn’t…”

Cas keeps insisting, “It’s not that bad, really,” but feels his head flushing warm. Shame. Delicateness.

Cas hears, “There’s no scar, so. Nerve damage, or?” and he swallows dry. “You don’t know?” Cas has no answer to that. “C’mon, talk to me.”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“For how long?”

“For—a long time. It flares up every now and then, but. I don’t know. It’s really not that bad,”

and Sam growls, “Cas,”

so Cas shuts up.

Immediate, “Sorry,” softer but on-edge,

and Cas murmurs, “It’s okay,” and Sam keeps running his hands over his bad leg.

“Absolutely no kneeling until we’ve figured this out, okay?” and it’s as close to an order as Sam’s ever forced himself so far, even though it’s tinted sweet and tender, and Cas nods, grateful for the clear instruction.

“Yes. If you say so.”

“Jesus.” Sam bows deeper until he can bed his head in Cas’ lap. Cas reaches a hesitant hand out to pet his alpha’s head, comb through his hair. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I apologize.”

Muffled, “Stop saying that,” and Cas tucks a strand of hair behind Sam’s ear. 


	22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poisoned | **Drugged** | Withdrawal
> 
> nsfwhump, roofies, rape, spn rpf, bottom!alexander, top!jensen, top!jared

Alex stumbles against something warm.

Thinks he hears, “Woah,” and stifled laughter.

His mouth won’t open right.

Warmth, and then nothing.

He gasps awake.

“Oh, hey.”

“He’s up?”

“Think so, yeah. Hey, Alex?”

Alex’s mouth moves, but his tongue won’t cooperate.

Again, “Hey,” softer, amused. Hands on Alex’s face; he can’t nudge them off, can’t turn his face away from them. “Hey, you’re all right. You’re fine, Alex.”

Jensen groans, “Oh, so fine indeed,” and Jared chastises, “Hey,” and Alex’s stomach turns for the weird off-kilter sensation.

Pleasure? Pain?

He huffs, feels sick. The world shifts and thrums until Alex realizes something’s moving—him.

Jensen and him.

Slurred, “Whu?” or half of that; Jared’s hands cupping his face, chin and forehead, further shushes him while Jensen’s face becomes clearer. Pleasure-pinched; tight.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Jared tells him, “Do it,” like this is some fucked-up game, and Alex tries to move but he’s bound—down, to the bed, something.

Above him, Jensen groans. Stops moving.

Alex feels sick. Can’t swallow right.

Jared praises, “Good boy, Alex,” and swoops his palm lower, over Alex’s eyes, until there’s nothing but blackness and sweat.


	23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Exhaustion** | Narcolepsy | **Sleep Deprivation**
> 
> case fic(ish), hurt!sam, team free will 2.0, referenced past trauma
> 
> Thank you, dearest @thefriendlypigeon, for providing me with this plot bunny ❤.

You’d think that, after everything so far, he’d be—numbed. About some kind of things, at least. All the misery, all the deaths.

He’s not particularly shaken up about it, at first. Pictures that haunt you, sure, but—they’ve had worse. Seen worse.

That first night without sleep is unexpected, but not unusual. Sam spends it reading, catching up with Cas. Jack politely asks for company for his Dr. Sexy marathon when Dean’s already out for the count, so Sam can’t deny him.

The second night is…odd.

Sam keeps quiet about it. Says good night and goes to his room, but rest won’t come.

He tosses and turns, confused. Goes through his breathing techniques, everything. But nothing will work.

Dean tells him, “Dude,” over breakfast, over overdone eggs. “Less Netflix, more sleep.”

Sam just mumbles, “Yeah, yeah,” and drinks coffee, black.

He went through this, before. It’s nothing you can get used to, not really.

Back with Lucifer in his head, and.

He tries not to think about it too much.

Nighttime comes laced with anxiety.

Again, Sam can’t sleep.

He reads up on—spells, curses, whatever. Just a demon case, back then, and demons don’t usually…but maybe…

More coffee. Showers, cold and hot.

Cas eyes him suspiciously when he lays down for a nap.

Dean offers him beer, after dinner. “Better than warm milk,” he jokes, and they’re both pretty much immune at this point, but whatever. Sam tries. Empties a few bottles, but he just ends up being sick.

Five nights.

Six.

Dean grits, “There’s gotta be _something_ ,” and Cas is quiet and staring at a spot on the table, and Jack looks—scared. Sam rubs at his eye again.

He shrugs. “Rowena said there’s nothing. I dunno.”

“Shut up, we’ll work this out. We always do.”

Sam tells him, “Yeah,” just to say anything at all.

Loud. Everything is loud.

Sam drags himself outside, into the small garden they’ve got behind the bunker. Not a place most people would call a ‘garden’, but it’s what they’ve got. A patch of green, and sometimes Cas comes out here to pray, and. It’s just nice to get some fresh air.

Sam drops his ass into the grass, props himself up against a tree. Elbows on his knees and he rubs his hands over his face, back into his hair. Something as simple as breathing is torture, now. His head feels like it’s gonna explode. Swollen and just…wrong.

His heart stumbles along. Even people like Dean and him have limits.

“Can I sit with you?”

“I—yeah.” He hadn’t heard Jack coming outside, let alone walk right up to him. He’s too tired to try and smile. “Sure, yeah.”

Jack sits, close enough their shoulders touch. Sam is staring up into the sky, into nowhere, and he has a feeling Jack is doing the same.

“When I was smaller,” Jack muses eventually, through chirping birds and Sam’s throbbing headache, “Dean would sit down and read me stories. When I couldn’t sleep, I mean.”

“‘Smaller’,” mumbles Sam. Croaks half a laugh.

“I mean, right after I was born,” explains Jack. “Also, I guess, I don’t exactly have to sleep, so. It’s probably different.”

“Hm.”

“Maybe if you ask him, he’ll do it for you, too?”

“I don’t think it would help, Jack.”

“It worked for me.”

“This is different.”

Jack scolds, “You should at least _try_ ,” and Sam nods, rubs at his face again.

“Yeah. Okay.”


	24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation**
> 
> a/b/o dynamics, alpha!sam, alpha!cas, tortured sam Winchester, nonconsensual body modification, implied sexual slavery

It doesn’t hurt. Not like he thought it would, at least.

Like a sore throat. Sam swallows as little as possible. Probably doesn’t matter, but. It helps easing the endless thoughts.

Cas puts the collar back on after a couple of days. The incision has almost healed.

Sam hears, “Beautiful,” and closes his eyes—for the cradle of those hands on his face, the tenderness of it.

Sam clenches and unclenches his mittened hands, unseen. Gets the blindfold and is thrown off by the gag—maybe for the aesthetics, now. Hears,

“Good boy,”

and one hand slides to his chest, tugs at one of his nipples, at the heavy ring pierced through it, and for a first time, he can’t hear himself. Would groan, something, but…nothing. Absolutely nothing.

His mittens get unclasped from behind his back, and Cas walks him—out of the room. Down the hall. Sam makes a blind effort of not letting the leash go too taught, of keeping up with his master. As a reward, Cas tells him once more, “Good boy,” before activating the vibrations of the plug, and Sam shivers sweet, unexpected. Can’t make a sound. Not anymore.

Gets fingers, carding through his long hair. Brushing it out of his face, behind his hot-tipped feeling ears. Sam swallows. Remains on all fours, pliant and still. Waiting. 


	25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears | Alt 15. Carry/Support**
> 
> case fic(ish), wincest, hurt/comfort, aftermath of violence, hunt aftercare
> 
> Big ol’ thanks once more to @thefriendlypigeon for this plot bunny ❤.

Sam fights himself out of plaster and plywood.

“DEAN?!”

Debris and smoldering but a weak grunt and that’s all Sam needs, and he gathers another non-existent ounce of strength to crawl out from under the wreck, and it’s all autopilot from there.

Spot Dean, get to Dean, check if he’s breathing.

“Ugh…”

“Don’t talk.”

Broken ribs for sure. Concussion, maybe. Sam’s hands are too bloody and shaky to hold his phone right. Dean cringes for the light of the flash.

Sam promises, “I got you,” and Dean makes an ugly sound upon being heaved upright, like yeah something that’s not supposed to be able to shift is definitely shifting right now and Sam pleads, “Come on, hold on,” and Dean splutters, “Fuck,” but they’re moving.

Half a mile. Dean will be pleased, after, that they were careful to park her out of the explosion range.

Sam turns the volume up all the way just to keep Dean from slipping under. He can’t hear much despite the lingering tinnitus anyway, so. It doesn’t matter.

Slurred, “We got that sonofabitch?” and Sam says, “No,” just because he’s a dick like that. “Got himself.”

Werewolves and propane tanks don’t work well together.

Dean attempts a bad joke that breaks up several times and doesn’t make sense. Sam still tells him, “Yeah,” and throws him a smile, and keeps his foot heavy on the gas.

The bunker’s too far. Motel it is, just a couple of miles; Sam had spotted it on the way here (and so had Dean, wrinkling his nose). The lady at the front desk looks understandably taken aback.

Sam clears his throat, tries a smile. Tucks some of his hair back behind his ear and fishes a finger-sized splinter of wood out of there while he’s at it.

“Uh—two queens, please? Do you guys have ice?”

They do. Sam still hauls their loyal cooler from the backseat after he’s fireman-carried his brother into safety, first.

Dean jokes, “Finally, room service,” but after Sam’s done patching him up, he surrenders to the fact that all he’ll imbibe for the next twenty-four hours will be water (at the most).

Sam hears, “What about you?” and prompts, automatically, “I’m good,” and Dean grumbles, “Bull,” but he can’t even sit on his own, let alone see out of more than half an eye. “If your huge brain starts bleeding halfway through the night, I’ll kick your fucking ass.”

It’s tough to come down after a hunt like this. When the adrenaline fades and leaves you—broken. Sore. Sam rolls his shoulder for the umpteenth time. Pinched something. He’ll have Cas look at it, back home.

In his bed, Dean groans again.

Sam doesn’t look up from where he’s pulling the hundredth splinter from his knee. “Need something?”

Dean grumbles, “A new body,” and Sam chuckles.

“Now, come on. You’re being dramatic.”

Dean insists, “Duh,” and Sam baby-flinches for the unexpected puff of a pillow hitting him between the shoulder blades.

“Hey.”

“Two queens? What are you, twelve?”

“Dude, you have more rib fractures than ribs,” but Dean beckons him over nonetheless.

Sam sighs. Puts away the tweezers. Yeah, shit. His shoulder is…gonna need some angelic TLC.

“You should try and get some sleep.”

“Can sleep when I’m dead, Sammy.”

“Keep pushing it like you do and that’ll come sooner than later,” but he lets Dean thumb at his cheek all sweet, and he dips down for a kiss. Barely any space for him to sit. God, his shoulder.

“Your shoulder?”

“It’s nothing.” He winces just a little for Dean’s fingers probing for damage.

“Let Cas look at it.”

“Sure thing.”

“You that kinda nurse that’ll hold my dick when I pee?”

“Your hands are fine.”

Dean decides, “You could still hold it,” and Sam scoffs, and he squeezes Dean’s hand, and Dean squeezes back (even if weakly).

“Rest up, okay? We’ll head back tomorrow morning.”

“Did you…?”

“Windows and door, yeah. Texted Cas, he’ll let Jodie know.”

“Cool.”

Sam reiterates, “ _Sleep_ ,” and while Dean pouts, he’s already and visibly drifting off.

Sam lingers on his tiny spot on the side of Dean’s bed just long enough for his brother to succumb to their usual I Need A Ten-Hour Nap pill cocktail. Until Dean’s hand is limp in his palm, and he can slip off and away with good conscience.

Sam plucks another five splinters out of himself before he calls it a day.


	26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Migraine | **Concussion** | Blindness
> 
> justin smith (spn 14x15), hurt!justin, held captive

Justin comes to with a gasp. A sharp pain, and then—sickness.

He’s on his side, fortunately. Thinks he remembers not to inhale his vomit, and he coughs.

It’s dark.

His glasses are intact, just askew with his head firm on the ground, bending the temple stem weird. Concrete.

Static, then: _“You awake?”_

Justin remains very still.

His eyes are wide but unseeing.

The headlight flashes alive too-bright, and he curls in on himself for protection.

He groans.

 _“He’s awake,”_ and Justin heaves again, and when he touches his head, his hand comes away wet.

“What the…”

_“Yeah, he told you to hold still, so take that as a lesson.”_

Justin begins, “What—where—” but then he hears steps outside, and he looks up just to find his vision blurry despite his glasses, and he’s too heavy to get up, but.

The door opens.


	27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earthquake | **Extreme Weather | Power Outage | Alt 7. Found Family**
> 
> domestic destiel, teacher!cas, teacher!dean, dad!cas, kid!jack, hurt/comfort
> 
> A timestamp for my winkline WIP fic [Mild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896576).

Dean is the first to say something in the suddenly-settled dark, and it’s around a mouthful of potatoes:

“Uh.”

It’s basically drowned out by the storm outside, so it’s not too meaningful anyway.

“I, uh. I’ll check the breaker box.”

Dean says, “Yeah,” and gets his phone out.

Cas calmly assures, “I will be right back,” and Dean thinks for a moment that duh, yeah, but then he remembers the kid to his right, and. Oh.

In the light of the upturned phone flash, Jack is awfully pale.

“You all right, buddy?”

Jack just looks at him.

“Hey.” Dean puts his fork down, gets a hand on Jack’s shoulder to nudge at him. “It’s just a thunderstorm. It’ll be over in—”

Heavy, close-by thunder.

Dean finishes, “—a hot second. Jesus.”

Jack keeps looking miserable.

When Cas returns to the living room, the power is still out.

“Nothing.”

Dean says, “Shit,” before he can catch himself. “We can head over to my house, see if it’s still got some juice?”

“I’m afraid the entire street is out,” and Dean gets up to look out the window, and, yeah. Jesus. “I will get some candles. Jack, you can go ahead and grab the flashlight from the kitchen,” and Cas vanishes upstairs with that, and Dean looks over at the kid who is still frozen in his seat, fork in his hand and all.

Dean squats down so he can rub at Jack’s back, make him look him in the eye.

“Hey, it’s gonna be all right, okay?” and Jack nods, weakly, but he stifles a sob with the next thunder. “Your dad’s gonna get this place lit up like a neat little prayer’s paradise. Like Christmas.”

Jack’s small for his age, but the force he uses to cling to Dean on the next racket outside is—premature.

Cas gives him an embarrassed look when he returns with his arms full of candles while Dean is rocking Jack like a toddler.

Dean gestures at Cas that it’s fine; lets Jack sob with his arms thrown around Dean’s neck, his face buried in Dean’s sweater. Wide eyes for Cas to emphasize he better get a fucking move on.

“I know, bud, I know. Your dad’s gonna set up the candles now, okay? Get this place nice and bright again.”

Over the soft halo of Jack’s hair, Dean watches Cas lighting what must be a fucking lifetime supply of candles. Pfsh. Christians.

Cas does it reverently, careful; like he does everything. The glowing, new lights reflect in his low-slipped glasses. He’s still in his button-down, his khakis.

“Hey, Jack, I think he’s done. You wanna check?” but right then rumbles another thunder, and Jack is quick to shake his head like a fucking drill.

Cas begins, “Jack,” but Dean promises, “It’s okay,” as he lifts to a stand with Jack still wound around him and his back’s gonna hate him tomorrow but that’ll be fine. Probably. “You gotta eat more, kid, you’re lighter than a feather,” and Dean catches Cas’ little smile in the corner of his eye, and he smiles back with a new layer of warmth in his stomach.

Jack calms down eventually. Takes a bit more rocking from Dean, and once Cas joins in and huddles up against Jack’s back so he is literally surrounded by them, held and coddled from all angles, he soon knuckles at his eye and dares to take a lift his head from his hideout.

Cas kisses the back of his head. “See? All better.”

“We can turn on some music. I’ve got some on my phone. All classic.”

Cas corrects, “Classic _rock_ , you mean.”

“I mean—yeah.” He curls his fingers around Cas’ arm; strokes it sweet, and Cas’ mouth quirks gentle for that. “Jack’s all over The Kinks, aren’t you, bud?”

The kid mumbles, “Can you put on Girls Like You?”

“Uh, that’s not The Kinks,” and Jack says, “Yeah,” like an accusation and Cas bites back a smirk and Dean gives him enough of a deep look that Cas’s eyes melt, just a little, for him.


	28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidents | Hunting Season | **Mugged**
> 
> swesson, violence, knives, panties, humiliation, sex toys, threat of rape

Dean watches the vase tipping and falling, but the inevitable crash still has him flinching.

Sam looks down to the shards.

“Shit.”

Eyes over to Dean, a frown.

“Expensive?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Okay.” Sam shrugs, bangs one drawer closed and has his other hand on the next already. “You’ve gotta admit though, it was kinda fugly anyway.”

Dean blinks. The adrenaline roars fast and steady. He’s clear. He wishes he wasn’t.

Sam makes a last round through the living room—wide steps, long legs. Dismissive; doesn’t know the prices of Smith’s kitchen tools, the espresso machine. Maybe the resale value isn’t good for that kinda shit. Smith can’t know. (How would he?)

Sam clicks his tongue as he circles the sofa; eyes the stereo, the TV set. Retrieves the knife he had rammed into the armrest of one of the lounge chairs. Flips it between his fingers without looking, seems to—consider.

Dean can’t feel his hands.

Finally, “Bedroom,” and Dean’s thoughts once more spiral out of his reach.

He gets yanked up by the collar of his shirt, nearly falls to his face. An awkward hobble with his ankles ziptied like they are, have been for a while now. Pins and needles in his toes, inside his polished leather shoes.

He’s instructed to sit by the foot of his bed and to stay still. He doesn’t even have to nod.

A second glance from Sam, then, and Dean evades on instinct—those fingers, bunching his tie and wiping at his face, below his nose.

Sam tells him, “Stop it, I’m just trying to help. I didn’t break your nose, did I?” Dean looks away. Is heavily aware of the knife in the hand not cleaning him up. Murmured, serious, “Doesn’t _look_ broken,” and Dean nearly pisses himself with the unsuspected flat-handed pat to his cheek, one, two, and then Sam is up and gone once more to rummage through Smith’s possessions.

Years and years of—collecting. Searching, finding. Improving. Smith’s wardrobe, his furniture. All of it.

Sam gives an unimpressed, “Hm,” as he cards through hangers of Armani, Cavalli, Boss. Pulls one suit jacket out to hold it in front of him; turns around to show Dean and looks down on himself, over to Dean. “What do you think? We might be the same size.”

Dean watches him placing the knife on one of the shelves, shrugging out of his black denim jacket. Black simple tee underneath, stupid-tanned forearms, and he slips them into the sleeves of Dean’s suit jacket, the deep black one with the slim collar that’d threaten to look sorta feminine on anyone who isn’t built like Smith—or Wesson.

“Little short around the wrists,” notes Sam, tugging the jacket in place, into form, and—yeah. Fits him. Minus the sleeve situation. Sam looks at him in the mirror, first, before he turns, smiles as he spreads his arms out. “Fine feathers make fine birds, huh?”

He finds the other Rolex. Of course he does.

Slips it on, stacks it over the already-there one he’d snaked off Dean’s wrist first thing. The other watches, the cufflinks—Sam pockets them all, greedy and soundless. Picks up his knife (Dean’s knife) and half-licks his lip as he turns around, wonders out loud, “Where’s the safe, huh?” or maybe it’s directed at Dean. Dean can’t tell.

Sam paces the room. Runs his bare hand along the walls, the cabinets.

Clearer, “Where is it?” and Dean looks up, cranes his neck. Sam looks down at him like he expects him to talk.

Dean just stares back with wide eyes and the gag biting into the corners of his dried mouth.

Sam rolls his eyes, throws his hands into the air. “Fucking— _nod_ into the direction or something.”

Dean hesitates even though it won’t matter. Sam will grab everything and haul ass and they’ll never see each other again, after this. Getting out of this alive— _that_ should be your focus, that’s all you gotta do here.

Dean jerks his head towards the semi-invisible closet doors Sam could have easily found without his help in less than a fucking minute.

Sam deflates. Slaps his empty hand down over his thigh. “Was that so hard?”

He’s still wearing Dean’s jacket.

“Here?” he asks, and Dean nods, sweats. Sam steps into the closet and Dean hears, “Oh,” and his guts clench, and he looks down to his knees instead.

A scoff, amused.

“Guilty pleasures, am I right?”

Dean doesn’t move.

He hears Sam emerging from the small space, closing in on him. Keeps his eyes pointed down, away. Sam holds the objects out for him anyway.

Sam lets them drop, rain into Dean’s lap.

“You wear these on the job? Underneath your five grand power suits?”

Dean remains unmoving until Sam fists his hand into his hair, yanks at him. Smith does look up at him, then; tight nasal inhale and Sam’s face is empty, calculating.

“Maybe you’re wearing a pair right now?” and Dean half-blinks for the knife guiding itself towards him, dipping down to his crotch.

His body stumbles together with his breath.

Sam tuts, “Shh-shh-shh, don’t make me slip,” clenches his fist still buried in Dean’s hair to regain his attention, his focus, while he searches and finds a crease of fabric the tip of the knife can catch onto.

The fibers rip butter-soft. Sam does it slow, careful. Dean’s gonna faint.

A snort.

“Figures.”

Dean’s thigh flinches for the nick he earns with how Sam attempts to pluck at the lace with the tip of the knife.

Sam tells him, “Pretty kinky, Mr. Smith,” and Dean holds on, just make it through, it’s all gonna be okay.

Sam lifts out of his squat to return to the closet. Rummages further; Dean hears him taking the hanging mirror down eventually but foregoing the now-revealed safe door, and that’s odd, but nothing about Sam seems to be—expected. That he’d turn on him. After that ghost, after everything.

Sam returns with more merchandise in his hands, and Dean’s stomach turns heavy. Sam seems amused about that.

“Your boyfriend gets you these? Girlfriend?” He’s on his knees in front of Dean, the knife by his side. He uses both hands to rip Dean’s dress shirt open, easy, flying buttons and all. “Or, maybe—you just get ’em for yourself. Spoil yourself a little.”

Dean winces for the biting snap of the first nipple clamp, the second. He squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head away. Sam presses him back against the bedframe with one hand just below his throat, makes him push out his chest with his arms crossed and ziptied behind his back.

Wonderous, murmured, “What if they found you like this? What would you do?” and Dean swallows, and he can’t think.

Sam’s hand is ice-cold against his throat, colder on the exposed skin where Dean’s pants are ruined. Where he yanks the rip wider, and Dean surges for that, the realest bit of fight he’s put up since Sam had managed to send him to the ground with that right hook, face-down, tying him up. Sam shuts that down with a click of his tongue, a swoop of his eyes; the slip of his hand to truly grab at Dean’s sweaty throat, and Dean shivers against the power of his instincts to—what? Curl in? Fight Sam off?

“You screw a lot of people?”

Dean can’t stand those eyes, wide and curious and fixed on him and he looks away, despite the dig of fingers into the underside of his jaw, despite that other hand finding and cupping his balls, squeezing, dipping lower. Tearing the seams apart further.

“Bet you’re not easy, though. Not like that,” and Dean shudders sick for those fingers rubbing over-under the lace, over the dry folds of his asshole. “Got standards, don’t you.”

Smith huffs around the gag (just a bandana, cotton and harsh and cutting into the corners of his mouth it’s bound so tight), around the pressure Sam applies to his throat, his trachea.

“Maybe you prefer paying? Just so you know they’ll be worth your time. So you’re safe, and there won’t be any…talk.”

Dean swallows despite the steady grip. Hangs back as far as he can as Sam leans in, nudges them cheek to cheek, mouth up against Smith’s bare ear. His other hand is still rubbing through Smith’s gash.

“You ever paid for something like this? Pretending you don’t want it and them taking it anyway? Maybe you should pay me,” and Dean convulses with a deep-chested noise, the first he’s granted Sam, for the threat and weight of his words and for Sam, sliding his lip along Dean’s earlobe.

A chuckle, singular squeeze to Dean’s throat. “Yeah? That a yes?”

Smith articulates that FUCK YOU as clear as he can through his mouthful of cotton.

Sam laughs again. Leans back a little, so Dean can see his face, the deep cut of his dimples as he smiles.

“Shit, man, don’t make me like you.”


	29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intubation | Emergency Room | **Reluctant Bedrest**
> 
> a/b/o dynamics, bobby singer, wincest, sam and dean are not related, mpreg, alpha!sam, omega!dean
> 
> The ghost of a sequel to [Still Running](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820828) still haunts me after all these years, so here is a glimpse of what it’d be.

Bobby’s face, as he watches Dean hefting himself out of the car, etches itself deep into Sam’s memory.

“Dean,” offers Dean, and Bobby shakes his hand.

“So I’ve heard.”

Sam’s hand ghosts to Dean’s shoulder in instinct, and he mumbles, “Thanks, Bobby,” and lets himself get pulled into a one-armed hug.

“Coffee, anyone?”

“Uh, water? Acid reflux.”

“Sure, sure. Come on in. Mi casa and so on.”

While Dean follows Bobby into the house, Sam makes a U-turn for their bags in the trunk of the Impala and hauls them upstairs, into the guest room. He takes a second to catch his breath—here, in the middle of this room he still knows from so many moons ago, having spent so many nights. With Dad, if Dad would come up eventually instead of crashing on the couch. This room, where Dean will…

Sam makes his way back downstairs, into the kitchen. Even sitting, Dean has to sprawl. Currently attempts to toe off his sneakers while Bobby fixes them a cup of joe, and Sam is quick to slip to his knees, help his mate out.

A small, “Thanks,” and Sam’s mouth pulls into a tiny smile. He brings the falling-apart shoes out into the corridor. He should replace them, soon.

Louder, “Thank you,” and that one’s for Bobby. Sam rejoins them, pulls a chair aside to sit. “For letting me, us—y’know.”

Bobby reprimands, “Don’t even start with that crap,” and his scent is all buttery and sentimental, and Sam feels bad for pulling him into this. Gets a pointed finger and a, “You too, idjit,” and bites back a chuckle. “What else am I gonna do with all those spare rooms? Just lil’ old me, I ain‘t takin’ up that much space.” Bobby has both hands on the counter, gives them a look. “’Sides, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that—you boys, in that car, and. Well.” Bobby gestures into Dean’s direction.

Dean takes a pointedly long sip from his glass of water. Probably to keep his smart mouth shut, and Sam is thankful for that. He’s still exhausted from the work it took to persuade Dean to come here.

Once they’ve got him upstairs, later, Dean is out for the count. Laid out on the bed, he breathes like he ran a marathon—and sweats accordingly, too.

He swats at Sam’s hand and grunts, “I’m fine,” so Sam lets him be, as per usual. Lets him curl up, face away from Sam and the door, on his side because everything else is intolerable at this point, he says. And, yeah, he’s—huge. There’s simply no other word for it.

Down in the kitchen: “Boy or girl?” and Sam tells the omega, “Girl,” and Bobby’s face lights up like a Christmas morning. Sam can’t not reciprocate that. Finally, someone he can smile with about it all.

Quiet, like they’re conspiring: “You picked a name yet?”

~

Dean glares daggers, and he snarls.

Sam tries to not let it get to him, but it’s…hard.

He gathers more blankets, more pillows.

Dean says it’s too hot and will growl at him the next minute to fucking close that goddamned window. He’ll eat plain potatoes, nothing else. Everything else makes him sick, he says, and Sam only tolerates it because in these last days, surely it can’t do much damage.

Not that their diet had been up to any standards on the road, but.

At least a roof. Another person. A phoneline.

“It’s not fucking _nesting_ , dude, I’m just fucking _freezing_.”

Maybe Bobby being around is the best about it all. At least for Sam.

“Imagine carrying a twenty-pound watermelon around for months at a time,” grumbles the old man, flicking through books and half on the phone with a fellow hunter. “You’d be pissed as all hell as well.”

Days pass—peacefully. Just waiting. Every sudden hiss or grunt sends Sam’s alarms ringing, but it always ends up just being nothing. Just Dean, complaining, hurting. Sam helps with Bobby’s junkyard, with chores. Brings Dean’s meals upstairs for him to eat them in bed because the stairs are impossible for him now. Sam spends afternoons just—curled up beside Dean. With respectful distance, because Dean won’t let him touch him anymore.

Only at night. In the darkest hours and they’re both restless, and turning, and mumbling. When Dean’s sore and done with the world and he talks to Sam, for real, confesses, “I just wanna be done with this crap,” and lets Sam rub his belly, lets him nuzzle and kiss it and whisper to their child. Soon, he thinks; soon.


	30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Wound Reveal** | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury | **Alt 10. Nightmares**
> 
> hurt!sam, traumatized!sam
> 
> Big thanks to @husbro for the much needed inspiration for this one ❤.

Corpses and. Him.

A smile and, “We knew we would find you eventually, you know,” and Sam

opens his eyes.

He sits upright in his bed, and. It’s quiet.

The bunker, as always. Day or night, no matter what hour, just…quiet. Man-made and concrete. Books. Cas once attempted to grow potted basil in the kitchen, but even that one died.

A tomb, sometimes. If you keep away the sentimentalities.

Sam walks the halls. Cell blocks. Metal doors. They had kept Crowley here for weeks. Not the first demon in that chair

(not the last).

Sam sits in the kitchen to just—breathe.

Mom, Dad.

The laughter, here, in this room, still reverberates.

Sam hears them, sometimes.

Unthinking, he thumbs—at that old scar, in the center of his palm. Horrid-looking. It still stings, sometimes.

And it helps to—anchor himself. In the pain. Reminds him that, yeah, this—this is real. You are alive. You can still feel.

When Sam looks up, his brother is standing in the kitchen doorway, and for a second, he thinks…

“You okay?”

Sam says, “Yeah,” and rubs his palms together while Dean helps himself from leftovers. Bathrobe and bedhead; grilled chicken.

Sam frowns, because—

“Man, I had the weirdest dream.”

“Yeah?” Sam perks up. Forces his hands flat on the table. “Nightmare?”

“Nah, that stage, like—in between just…freaky and. Nonsensical.”

Dean gestures with the half-eaten chicken leg while he talks. Tired, still, and will fall back asleep as soon as he puts his head down on his pillow.

Sam gets the feeling that he won’t be as lucky tonight.

He cracks half a smile. “Cows?”

and Dean warns, “Shut up,”

so Sam does that while he lingers, just for another second.

His bed is cold.

He turns.

He turns again.

Closed eyes, and yet…

Sam scratches at his palm. Digs his nails in, and it should hurt, but,

nothing.

Empty sleep. Like a fever, back with the Trials. The smell of tomato soup and, Sammy, I promise he’ll be back soon, don’t cry.

Sam wakes with a gasp that feels

like someone else breathed it into him.

Out of bed. Into the corridor. Kitchen. Kitchen table.

He sits.

What time is it?

He turns his palms up, and.

It should hurt. Should hurt with how bad he’s bleeding.

Right?

A wave of sickness, then, and. Sam blinks, and—sweat? No. Just—cold.

This isn’t real. This isn’t

it can’t

Dad says, “Sam,” and asks him, “You gotta listen right now, okay?” and Sam shivers and tells him,

“Okay,”

and then Dean chews on the same chicken leg from before and mumbles, “Man, I had the weirdest dream,”

and Sam utters, “Cows,”

and Dean chuckles and tells him, “You should have rotted in that cage,” without looking up from his food

and the pain settles

in

then.

From his toes and racing _up_ and Sam hisses, once, and as he looks down to his feet he’s bleeding there, too, and he hears himself (himself?) murmuring, “No,”

and Lucifer says, “Yes,”

and Cas’ eyes shine empty-white like the sun when he says, “Did you know, Sam, that crucifying humans with their arms above their head instead of stretched out to their sides is drastically more time-efficient?”


	31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Experiment** | Whipped | Left for Dead
> 
> dean in hell, alastair, knives, dissociation

Nothing exists, and yet it does.

Flesh and bones. Time and fire.

Soft, “Are we thinking about someone else again?”

Alastair’s hand guides the blade in a straight line.

Dean—lives. Somehow. Still. Again.

Sinews and skin.

One, two, three, four.

Dean’s skin—parts. For the metal, for the cut.

It closes shortly behind, like dough, like glue. Nothing is real.


End file.
